If Convenient,
by prettyredfox
Summary: What else was he to do? Sherlock Holmes was dead and he wasn't. How could he not follow this man on his greatest journey, yet?/No worries everyone, this is a reunion fic, not a character death. Though warnings for some very strong suicide thoughts.


He was beginning to believe he couldn't do it after all. In the beginning his friends got him through it by telling him it would get better with time. Of course, after making it through the nightmares Afghanistan left him with, he believed their words true. People grieve for a time and then they get over it. That was how it went. Hell, if it were _him_, he would've gotten over John's death fast enough. He was_ Sherlock_, grieving was illogical or some shit like that. People died every day. Get over it.

And John had tried. He'd tried so _damned hard_. After the first year he'd begun to feel cynical about the whole 'have some time off, cry a little, get intoxicated while talking it over' speech. He'd done all these things-multiple times- and none of them did a damn thing. He still flinched when anyone with _any_ familiar features matching Sherlock's. Men, women, child, or animal: all he could see when he looked at them was Sherlock.

His nightmares and limp had returned as well, with a vengeance. His shoulder ached ceaselessly, (for no reason, it wasn't like he was running around the streets of London chasing down murderers.)a deep-rooted pain that left him breathless at times.

So, yeah, the first year was a bit not good. It was the middle of the second when he realized it probably wasn't going to get any better. It was about the same time everyone around him figured it out as well.

He and Sarah hadn't been seeing each other romantically for a while, so there were no ties to cut there. She did fire him though, after realizing a little before he did that his attitude towards life was not getting any better with time. He understood; he wasn't working when he should and she had given plenty of time to recover after the funeral, but he wasn't getting any better. She only knew the half of it. Mycroft began visiting on a weekly basis (he was also now paying the rent and John just couldn't find it in himself to care), as did Lestrade. Small talk had never been this boring before Sherlock, he was sure of it. He could hardly muster the strength to indulge them. Mrs. Hudson came almost every day trying to get him to eat.

John really wished they wouldn't bother.

The only thing the third year of his tired and oh-so-boring existence brought about was the indifference. Everything was a waste of breath, insignificant. Why did he bother? Why get up in the morning? He had nothing to do. Why eat anything? It all tasted like nothing anyways. Why socialize with people? They only die a useless death sooner or later.

So why bother?

That ran through his head almost as much as Sherlock did. He found himself examining his gun more than was healthy. Sometimes he'd lose track of time staring at the barrel, visualizing what it would feel like for it to be pressed to his temple, his finger twitching on the trigger. This was why he never picked up his gun anymore, fearing he wouldn't be able to resist painting the chemical stained walls with his useless brain.

Who would care? No one _really _knew him. Not anymore. The only person who'd really known him had done a swan dive to his death, leaving him alone and infinitely depressed. He was wallowing in his own misery, a thing he would've once been too proud to allow himself to do. But John now knew for a fact that despite what everyone informed him, you can't get over Sherlock Holmes.

Three years since his death and John was still crawling into his deceased flatmate's bed seeking comfort. That wasn't recovery of any sort. That was just plain sad, hence, John Watson's dilemma. Pack that in with the constant boredness and ever-present thoughts of suicide and you get the anti-social, gaunt man cuddling his dead friend's pillow. Try to take that man's dead friend's pillow from him and you get a broken jaw.

Wanders never cease and dead consulting detectives never come back. Even if their geniuses. And John Watson had indeed prayed for him to come back. Just because his best friend in the entire world was wrongfully dead, accused of fraud, and John himself was considering blowing his brains out didn't mean that he didn't pray. All this just made him pray harder, in fact. What else was there to do in this boring world full of uselessness? Besides offing himself, of course.

Unfortunately, he was all out of patience and as fun as praying was, he just couldn't do it anymore. So, he was now opting for that loaded gun sitting on his bedside table at home.

It hadn't been a big life-changing decision. Nothing awful had actually happened to him this particular day that finally helped him make up his mind. John had just been in the Tesco, starring at the milk when he suddenly felt ready. Determined, John set down his basket of groceries on the floor of the store and took off for Baker Street, the only thing slowing him being his limp. It wasn't right to be alive when he wasn't; to be buying milk for tea that Sherlock would never drink again. John was loyal and following Sherlock was what he survived Afghanistan for, so why should this destination be any different than the last?

As if giving a last goodbye, the Heavens opened and began pouring down rain as he walked briskly, not even bothering to hide his head from the downfall. It wouldn't matter when he reached his apartment. He didn't remember much of his walk, and before he knew it he was struggling up those stairs to his bedroom. His hands were shaking so much he failed the first couple tries to get his door open before taking that first step over the threshold.

It was a funny thing, the constant tremor going through his body like tiny currents of electricity. It wasn't fear, so he figured it was the rain clinging uncomfortably to his skin, but he didn't feel cold. Then again he'd stopped feeling a lot of things when the man who'd changed his whole life cracked his brilliant skull on an insignificant sidewalk. He thought he was taking it rather well, considering everything.

They should all be proud he'd made it this long, he mused, the weight of his lovely revolver resting gingerly in his palm as he stroked fingers over it like he would a lover. And in this moment, he did love this inanimate object. This cold weapon that had saved him and Sherlock countless times before was now going to help him get back to his place at Sherlock's side, the only place he could ever belong and feel happy.

He was ready to be happy again. The constant world around him was nothing but an irritating blur now. Should he leave a note? Text Lestrade and tell him to come get his body before he started to smell? John was happy he didn't have to worry about Mrs. Hudson finding him, due to the fact that she wouldn't be back from her sister's for another week. What would he say if he did write a note? He supposed he could lie and tell everyone he was sorry.

He thought about it for another minute before brushing the idea off. God forbid Lestrade inform Mycroft of his plans and the man send his goons in to stop him. Besides, he was due for another visit filled with awkward small talk soon anyways, they could find him then.

John sighed, and then reached for the small notepad and pen he usually kept in his drawer beneath the gun for grocery lists, jotting down a quick note in messy script. _Bury me beside him, if convenient, _he then paused before adding with a small smile, _if not convenient, do it anyways._

And that was that. So, without further distraction, he pressed the revolver tightly to his temple, closing his eyes. He was honestly surprised when he felt the unquestionable presence of tears flooding down his tanned cheeks. He didn't think he had any of those left in him. Faintly, in the back of his mind he wished for a cuppa tea, but he decided it was simply last minute nerves before placing his finger on the trigger.

Then the door to 221B opened and shut.

Annoyance came, so strong, John couldn't help the ugly sound that erupted from the back of his throat and he considered just finishing it before they came looking for him. But then he thought, maybe, just maybe it was Mrs. Hudson back early from her trip and barging in to get him to eat something. Well, this was just great, but hey, at least he'd get that last cup of tea before joining his friend.

The gun was just beginning its nearly unwilling road back from his head when his bedroom door burst open and he froze, hand still poised above his temple. Jesus, this was going to get awkward really fast for whoever had opened the door.

Which just so happened to be a pale man in a long coat and scarf, black curls framing his high cheek bones. The man who'd once been known as Sherlock Holmes was now currently invading his room. And didn't that just figure?

"Ah. I've completely lost it now, haven't I?" John said the disbelief in his tone obvious even though his voice cracked from misuse.

The mirage spoke then, as well, and _of course_ it would, wouldn't it? "John, what the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Coming to see you, dumbass." Now who was being the idiot? To be fair, since he was hallucinating this, that idiot would still constitute to being him.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in what seemed to be a tossup between anger and deep pain. Putting up a large hand, calloused by a lifetime of playing the violin and executing many chemical experiments, the man took a cautious step towards John, and then another when John didn't react. "I'm right here, John. Put the gun down, please, I'm right here in front of you."

John scoffed and shook his head, once again bringing his salvation to connect tightly to the side of his head. "No, you're dead. And I'm not. Not to worry though, I'm currently trying to rectify that right now."

"John! John, please it was all a trick, I'm not really dead!" The large hand was stretched out to him, Sherlock's uniquely gray eyes widened almost comically wide with panic. John sighed, and looked away from the apparition before him. Amazing, even when the man wasn't real, John still hated to see him like this. The most brilliant man shouldn't look like this, ever.

"I saw you die, Sherlock. I checked for a pulse." Why he was arguing with his own mind, he couldn't say, but it was Sherlock for god sakes. The man had a knack for forcing people into arguing. "Your dead and now I'm ready to be, so if you don't mind?" He gestured with his free hand towards his open door. "A little privacy would be appreciated."

"No! John, just _listen_, Molly helped me fake it. It wasn't real! John, _stop_!" His finger had begun to squeeze trigger, despite the lack of privacy. His heart was aching to believe this story and he knew once he considered it to be true, the brilliantly beautiful man in front of him would only disappear. And he would once again be alone. "Listen to me right now, John Watson! It was Moriarty; he told me if I didn't jump, he would have three assassins kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Molly helped me fake it, to call off the killers!"

John's brow furrowed as he struggled with what he was hearing. He was shaking again, this time with the effort not to jump up and throw himself into Sherlock's arms. _He's not real, Watson_. "Then why haven't you come back before? It's been _three years_, you git. Why are you just here _now_? The night I finally decide to kill myself?" The coincidence was just too big. Even if Sherlock Holmes was alive, what was the likely hood of him picking this night of all nights to barge heroically into their apartment and stop him from taking his own life? _Your apartment. It's not his anymore, because he's dead_.

"I had to kill the rest of Moriarty's operation, if I didn't the assassins would just come back and kill you when they found out I'd faked it." Sherlock was closer now, and John couldn't remember when the man had moved. "I'm so sorry, John. I'm so damned sorry, but you have to believe me, please. Put the gun down and I'll tell you everything." Gray eyes met John's and he couldn't stop the sob that erupted from his chest. It seemed so real. Even his most tangible dreams had never been like this. His mind couldn't make up details like this, could it? Healing knuckles from a fist fight and a slight yellowing around Sherlock's pale neck (criminals always did like to go for Sherlock's throat). There were a couple drops of coffee on his sleeve where he'd most likely spilled it while getting lost in his deductions and a slight bounce in his step that John knew came from several nights of no sleep. It was too real.

He couldn't see anymore, his vision so clouded by tears. He was disappointed in himself but knew he couldn't avoid it. He knew since this man had burst in through the door that his plans were ruined. Finally he did the inevitable and the hand stiffened almost painfully around the gun relaxed as it was pried from his fingers, a relieved sigh emitting from the phantom detective.

A very real hand then gripped the nape of his neck, threading through the small hairs there before he was yanked forwards into an also very real chest. Suddenly enveloped in a warm hug from someone he was convinced was dead was admittedly not the way John Watson planned his day to go. Something close to a scream forced its way out of him and he couldn't help but grip this man back; this very much alive man who smelled of Thai food, cigarette cloves, and chemicals. He could feel soft hair tickling the top of his forehead and warm breath grazing his ear, and best of all a pounding he knew to be a heartbeat pressed tightly to his chest, grounding him. At the sound of his scream, the arms around the base of his spine pulled him in until there wasn't any room left between them.

"I'm sorry, John, please believe me, I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again I promise. Just stop crying, please, just stop crying. It's okay, I'm here and I'm never leaving again, damn me." Sherlock ranted above him and John felt a small smile grace his lips at the sound.

Sherlock Holmes was alive and holding him _and_ apologizing. The whole damn world was going to explode, that was the only explanation.

Of course, as soon as this euphoric feeling was over, John would probably be enraged, but for right now he was too bloody happy. Sherlock hadn't explained how he'd just so happened to blaze in at just the right moment to end John's seemingly full-proofed plan to commit suicide, but then maybe there wasn't an explanation.

He did just so happen to live with the smartest man in the world, though he'd never tell him so. His ego was big enough.

**A/N: Truthfully, this was a spur of the moment. I just finished watching the season finally of 'Sherlock' and this just…well, it just happened and I couldn't stop. I am considering a sequel, just because writing John's Pov was super fun and I'd like to tell a story of one of their first cases back together. Oh! I'm also considering making it a slash (because it's so frigging hard not to) so if you're not okay with that, don't worry I'll put up warnings for my next story. ^^ So, if you liked it, please let me know! I mean, you don't have to, of course, but I'd be really happy if you did! Thank you for reading.**


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